


For Her

by threelittlebirds



Series: Revolutionary [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Arlathan, Blindness, Class Issues, Disabled Character, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fade Nerding, Fluff, Pre-Canon, Reincarnation, Slavery, The Making of a Rebel God, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Young Solas, pre-rebellion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:11:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3574301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threelittlebirds/pseuds/threelittlebirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The great civilisation of Elvhenan once spanned the continent, bloated on its own power and built on the broken backs of its people. Its gods warred among themselves, and the people suffered for their hubris. It would be their undoing, with stirrings of rebellion on a thousand hungry lips, and cries for justice on their tongues. </i><br/>---<br/><b>Set around 4850FA, a fic following the birth of the elven rebellion and the beginning of the Fall of Arlathan. An examination of how Fen'harel became harellan, the pre-carnation of Ilynwe Lavellan, and the beginnings of history repeating itself.</b><br/>---<br/><i>"If the idea giving the spirit form is strong, or if the memory has shaped other spirits, it may someday rise again. Something similar may reform one day, but it might have a different personality. It would likely not remember me. It would not be the friend I knew.”</i></p><p>  <i>“You are a rare and marvelous spirit.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Meeting of Minds

**Author's Note:**

> For clarity's sake: this fic is set before Fen'harel began all out rebellion against the other gods, so character's names will appear as somewhat changed based on how elves change them in the game depending on life changing experiences. At this time, Fen'harel is not the rebel god, and the tale of the slow arrow is yet to take place.
> 
> Fen'Harel/Solas: Soran - He who has power in dreams  
> Felassan: Alingarel aka Inga - Fear the dirty sharp one  
> Ilynwe: Nydha - The quiet of night between midnight and dawn
> 
> Thanks goes out to fenxshiral and Project Elven for providing me with more elven words to mangle.
> 
> Translations for this chapter in order of appearance:  
> fel'arani: my slow friend  
> Silerath'an: The university of Arlathan, lit. place of eternal thought

The boulevarde shimmered burnt umber and gold in the afternoon sun. Aging trees scattered it across the pavers, great gnarled trunks threatening the integrity of the aging arches while also being the only thing that kept them standing. Around him, there was the usual foot traffic: commoners in muted clothes carrying their wares back from the market, or returning from the temple district.

He paid most little mind as he passed, taking long strides but by no means in a hurry to return to the upper spires or his temple. He was a bad god, he supposed, and the others often told him so, but there were few things less interesting than sitting trapped within gilded walls. No, give him a dark hovel, a deck of cards and people gambling away their secrets any day.

Most refused to meet his eyes, casting him furtive glances before skittering off to the side, giving him a wide berth. His cowl was left hanging down his back, hair loose, and there was no mistaking who he was among these people, though many had never before seen his face.

He noticed absently that one commoner was walking in his direction rather than duck out of his way, but that would likely change. She was moving quickly, looking dead ahead but seemed in a hurry, her arms laden with heavy tomes, precariously positioned notes hanging out of the seams. She got closer still, still seeming not to notice him though she was looking right at him. Her thoughts must have been preoccupied indeed.

The distance between them closed quickly, and by the time he realised she wasn't going to move out of the way it was too late. She collided face first with his chest with a quiet oof, her books thrown awry and the notes well and truly scattered to the wind. He ought to have been furious, though her confused expression gave him pause.

“You should watch more carefully where you tread, da’len,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height, watching her down the bridge of his nose.

Her only response was to smile quietly to herself as though he’d told some joke, before dusting off her draping tunic. More intricate, more brightly coloured than those worn by most in the marketplace, but her cropped hair hung around her chin in soft brown waves, bleached by the sun. Lower middle class, at best. Amazingly, she offered no apology for running into him, did not drop to her knees and beg his forgiveness as might have been expected. Instead, she cast an inelegant spell with the wave of a hand, collecting up the books and their annotations in another messy pile in a way that suggested this was not the first time it had been toppled today.

“What better advice to follow than your own, fel’arani?”

Blasphemy. He was quite unsure how to react, though she herself seemed quite unaffected, still smiling coyly at him. Her stare unnerved him. Further heresy, but his pride was quickly rebuffed by his own curiosity. She remained thus, her ears moving about - an outward sign that belied her true anxiety? He couldn’t say.

His gaze dropped once again to her books - a curiosity among this district, out of place. She could have been a serving girl, but somehow with a tongue like that he doubted that very much. The tomes bore the seal of the university.

“You’re a long way from Silerath’an.”

She tilted her head, her ears still twitching as she considered him. Curiously, he felt faint stirrings in the fade: she was prodding at him, quietly. A lesser practitioner would never have noticed.

The girl straightened again, satisfied with something. “You ask a great many questions.”

Unbelievable. “And you offer no answers.”

“Not the ones you seek.”

His brow only furrowed in response. Her words, they were not the common tongue. She was educated, well educated, but her hair suggested more humble station. Her clothes suggested another. Her face was unmarked, she was no slave.

Gathering the heavy books tighter in her arms, she tilted her head in his direction once again, accompanied by another faint prod in the fade, which he must have reacted to because her ears stopped twitching.

“Dar’eth, fel’arani,” she murmured sweetly, moving around him flawlessly and continuing on her way. No bow, no apology, no explanation. He watched her in stunned silence. She was an enigma.

She was gone.

\----

Days passed following the incident under the crumbling archways of the merchant parade, and yet her face haunted him. She made no sense, And as he’d noted, outside the petty squabbles of the pantheon, there was little to consume his attention. Not even the fade offered him solace. Instead, he kept returning to the insubordinate heretic in the marketplace. Eventually, the inevitable occurred and he found himself walking the steps of the university.

He’d shaped the fade around him, making his hair appear shorter, cropped at his shoulder blades and elegantly braided in the style of nobles, but went otherwise unchanged. He had no desire to be revered today, instead he sought the truth.

The first few clerks and helpers barely lived up to their name, though in fairness ‘outspoken, common girl with distinctive eyes’ was little to go off. Eventually though, one of the professors who was retrieving a cracked scroll pointed him in the direction of a set of stairs. Yet another on the next floor said she’d been there, but couldn’t say where she’d gone. More questions and few answers later, someone finally suggested he check ‘the eyrie’.

This, it seemed, was a dusty knook in the building’s tallest spire, accessed via an archaic staircase that looked as though it had existed since the founding of the empire. The room was lit in brilliant light streaming in from the single large window that took up much of the side wall, the rest lined from sloping ceiling to floor in clutter and decaying history.

Sitting in the corner surrounded by stacks of even more degrading works was the girl from the market place. She didn’t look up as he entered, and he paused on the top step, watching her and paying particular to the rather peculiar vibrations in the fade. She wasn’t reading the pages she poured over, her eyes were closed and her left palm instead hung over a far newer page, where complex lettering was appearing beneath her fingertips. She was transcribing them, he realised.

“Was there something you needed, fel’arani?”

Her eyes remained closed, and he stepped fully into the small room, stooping slightly until he reached the higher ceiling and dodging around the clutter that truly defied all laws of nature in staying upright.

“You have a curious set of gifts, da’len,” he replied. She may have heard him enter, but she had not looked up to see him, nor had he felt her prod at the fade around him like she had done in the market. Perhaps she hid it better. It was not a comforting thought. “You left quite the impression. Do you often leave them so physically?”

This time she did open her eyes to look at him, and the faint vibration in the fade dissipated as she dropped her palm.

“Do you often so determinedly seek them out afterward?” She tapped the side of her head. “Watching my path would be more than a little difficult no matter how much I might want it.”

“You are blind,” he murmured, suddenly understanding.

“I didn’t expect you to know.” Her ears began to twitch again, and he realised he’d lapsed into silence. When he shifted in place, her left ear followed it, infinitesimally.

Her behaviour now made a lot more sense: she hadn’t seen him. While she continued to watch him, it was hard to believe such eyes perceived nothing. He’d seen elves sometimes blinded by injury, but it was rare for anyone with access to medical care or a good healer to be permanently maimed. Her eyes however appeared undamaged, bright and alive. But broken.

He regarded her for a pregnant moment, though he knew she could not see him. “Do you know me, da’len?”

“Should I?” she replied, innocently enough. “My talents extend to the finesses and nuances of the fade, not the clandestine.”

A pause, and she considered him, tapping her fingers on the page before sitting upright in her seat. “How may I know you, fel’arani?”

“Soran,” he replied with only a moment’s hesitation. If she noticed, she didn’t comment, and instead offered him the ghost of a smile. The name he used for himself in candid situations seemed to amuse her, but she had also noticed him react to her tentative investigations. Again she’d made no comment, instead almost visibly cataloging the information for later.

“Nydha,” she replied with a faint nod of her head.

Soran hovered, thinking better of resting his weight against a sturdier looking stack of crates. He should go, his curiosity now sated, but he made no move toward the rickety stairwell. The way she used the fade was fascinating, she was fascinating, he needed to unravel her. So instead of turning heel, he walked in the opposite direction into the labyrinthine alcove.

“How does a common girl get a job at Silerath’an?”

“My parents were merchants,” she explained, immediately correcting him, and Soran frowned - her hair was shorter than what he had expected from the merchant class, certainly one who’d managed to find herself an education. All of the other professors and even the clerks wore their hair around their shoulders, only the serving class had hair shorter than her.

“I was going to join them in the craft but I became ill when I was in my teens. Eventually the university wanted a look at me when they decided my condition was worth merit. They managed to stop it, but the damage was done. They couldn’t fix my eyes, they wouldn’t respond to any treatment conventional or otherwise. I stayed so they could study it.”

“And do you expect they’ll find a cure?”

She laughed. “No.”

“And yet you remain?” His brow furrowed, searching her face for any clues.

“There are other things for me here,” she ran a fond hand over the stained and cracked tome on the weathered desk. “One of the professors took me on as an apprentice.”

That surprised him, though looking at her work perhaps not.

“And you?” she countered, changing the subject before he could continue. “What were you doing in the commons?’

“Things my… family, would not approve of,” he replied. She needn’t know the details, it served no purpose. Quietly, the idea of talking to someone who knew him not by name or reputation was alluring.

“Your family?” She shifted slightly in her seat to follow his movement, ears pricking at the sound of books being shifted, a hand sweeping dust off cracked leather and the heave of ancient wood as he sat in the old high-backed chair tucked away between a lopsided bookshelf and a rack of scrolls. “Would they approve of this?’

He chuckled. “No, probably not. Noble families tend not to unless it furthers their interests.”

Her eyes narrowed, creasing pleasantly at the corners and the corner of her lips quirked. “How does the son of a noble house come to be so intimately acquainted with the fade?”

So she had noticed. “Call it a hobby.”

“Interesting hobby,” she replied in quiet challenge. She tucked a stray strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek behind an ear, to better pick up the quiet sounds he made.

“Not as interesting as yours,” Soran said, turning the conversation again. He reached out with a hand, pressing briefly against the memory held in the pages that she’d been deciphering before he arrived. There was the hint of something moving, shifting in place like a mixture of hot and cold water. Her. She was watching him, so quietly he hadn’t noticed this time.

“If its that interesting why don’t you join the university?”

He laughed at that, sounding alarmingly filling in the small space. “I don’t like handing in papers.”

That earned a broader smile from her and a wiggle from her ears, but no laugh.

“I’m surprised they let you,” he continued, unable to help the quiet jab. Her creative approach to the fade was not one he’d seen, but typically the study and manipulation of its machinations was generally restricted to the elite, the devout, the gods themselves. Not merchant girls who managed to con their way into the institute.

She merely shrugged. “I’m of use to them.”

“And so you get to use it freely,” Soran leaned back, and the leather creaked again. Her quiet smile remained as he watched her, and he could not tell if it was her disability or simply caution that made her hard to read. Her expressions were so precise, so quick he was beginning to feel like the blind one.

“You think they could stop me?”

“Someone might try,” The fact that he’d not heard of such a thing was testament to the university keeping her talents quiet. She was an asset to them, evidently one they’d be willing to protect. Shapers were rare, and though her talents differed from the norm, they were invaluable and undoubtedly more than a little illicit. The pantheon exercised tight control on such things.

She flicked a piece of dust he was amazed she knew was there from the book’s page. “Will you?”

There was a quiet challenge in her voice. An unspoken dare. She wasn’t afraid of him. She almost _wanted_ him to try. That was a foreign concept, though not a wholly unwelcome one.

“No,” he replied steadily. She was far too interesting for him to do something so petty.

She smiled and met his eyes, somewhat more unnerving knowing she couldn’t see him. This time he did feel the fade shift again.

“Are you trying to tell if I’m lying,” he asked, incredulous. Now he’d noticed her presence, she became suddenly more apparent, or perhaps that was simply her dropping pretences. She remained so still in the fade, her magic so fine that he didn’t even notice it. She wasn’t trying to affect him directly, but instead seem focussed on the space around. Part of him was quietly impressed, and intrigued.

“Would you be so trusting?” Nydha asked, wholly unapologetic. He supposed not.

“Do you do that with everyone?”

“I can’t see expressions, body language,” she shrugged again, and this time he definitely noticed her examining the fade for… something. “I’m just levelling the playing field.”

“So,” he challenged, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table opposite her despite the dust and grime no one had bothered to clear in centuries. “Am I lying?”

Her expression was truly unreadable and Soran thought he saw her lips quirk, but he couldn’t be sure. Her will withdrew, and now it had backed off his mind felt lighter than it had since he’d entered the room. She’d been watching the whole time.

“People are always lying,” she replied, For a moment, he wondered whether he was done. Then a coy smile crept across her features.

“But I believe you.”


	2. A Den of Daggers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soran is far from the only one harboring secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen translations in order of appearance:
> 
> fel'arani - _my slow friend_  
>  var'telany'th - _our voice will not be silenced_  
>  Ingal'ras - _lit. sharp shadows, agents of the resistance_  
>  harelvhen - _traitor to the people, slur aimed at the noble and upper classes_  
>  Tar'illen - _opposition to the sky, name for the resistance_  
>  da’inan - _(my) little eyes, diminutive_

When she returned to the eyrie two days later, he was waiting for her.

He was perched on the same creaking leather chair, one leg slung over the left arm with a book held lazily in hand. She paused only briefly, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge him, instead moving around the dusty room with uncanny accuracy as only someone who had claimed such a space could. Really, her talents made her ideally suited to a place that had likely lost any faded catalogue long ago. The enormous old tome still lay open on the desk where she’d left it, more pages on the right than the left now. She sat wordlessly, flipped open to the page of her transcription and drew on the fade. Soran’s lips quirked behind the page.

The stalemate continued, minutes passed, the only sound the occasional turning of pages or the shift of ancient leather as they moved. Occasionally, his eyes would flick to her knowing he would not get caught. Once he thought he saw the tiniest smile, but he could have simply imagined it. The next time he looked up, her cheeks were dimpled. Then she was biting her lip to stop herself from smiling. He’d given up the ghost entirely, a wolfish grin spreading from ear to ear that he needlessly hid with his book.

“You’re staring, fel’arani,” she murmured, not shifting to look in his direction. Her cheeks now dimpled two-fold, and the wide smile was barely kept in check.

“How would you know, da’len?” he countered, continuing to look at her over the top of his book.

“I don’t need to working eyes to feel yours on me.”

He barked a laugh at that- his initial assessment about that quick tongue of hers had been correct. The magic surrounding her hand ebbed as she shifted her attention, giving up on focussing on the ancient texts.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, wetting the pad of her thumb with her tongue before turning another page. “Won’t your family disapprove?”

He grinned again, and wrestled back a straight face. “What can I say? I’m a rebel.”

Her hand paused on the page and she turned in his direction, even raising an eyebrow purely for his benefit.

“Are you so shocked da’len?

A quiet laugh escaped her lips, and he felt he’d won some small victory.

“Perhaps not, fel’arani.”

  
Two days later, he was waiting in the same leather chair. And then again three days after that, only then he brought them savoury cakes from the market. She made no complaint, and even seemed glad to see him. By the fourth visit, she offered him quiet smiles. The university certainly didn’t raise a word of protest, and the pattern continued. Weeks became a month. Part of him wanted to commandeer her attention for himself, having long since decided her talents were wasted on the university, but a larger part still enjoyed the candid nature of their discussions. There was no pretense, no preconceptions, just talk. She challenged him as often as he challenged her, and it was an oddly freeing experience. He took great pleasure in their discussions, having to find more reasons to keep himself from returning every day rather than every few. But he lived another life, no matter how he tried to pretend otherwise. But up in the eyrie with her, he wasn’t Fen’harel.

The next time he clambered up the rickety staircase, later than he usually was, she wasn’t there. It looked as though the room had remained untouched since they left two days ago. Her book was still open at the same page, the ornate wrapper she’d saved from the cake because she said it ‘felt pretty’ marking the spine. He descended the staircase, and went looking for her mentor. He knew the man by now, at least in passing, a rotund fellow with lopsided braids and a constantly suspicious expression. He used the same one on him now, eyes narrowing to slits.

“She isn’t here,” he said abruptly before Soran could even open his mouth. Nydha’s mentor was it seemed like many of the university’s professors; thinking themselves as more important than the noble class. How he would have trembled in his moth-eaten boots knowing who he was truly speaking to.

“Where is she?” Soran asked, not bothering with pretense either. It was a lost cause.

The large elf grumbled and readjusted the tunic that appeared to be several sizes too large even for him. “Out.”

“Where?”

The round elf shrugged again. “Research.”

Soran left feeling irritable. The cakes went uneaten that day.

She was mysteriously missing on research for over two weeks, and it reached the point where he’d come and check every day to hear that she was once again absent. Her mentor offered no suggestion how long she’d be away, where he might find her or even knew what she was researching. Soran had to quietly marvel at how she had managed to work the university around her little finger without them even noticing.

He was beginning to lose hope of her ever coming back -even beginning to think something more nefarious had occurred- when the next morning she was back in her usual place, outlined in the soft glow from the window as though she’d never left. Two small cakes were peeking out of a plain napkin on the desk, steam still rising from them in the chill air.

Instead of taking a seat, he stood waiting. She ignored him for a time, she was good at that, and he was almost convinced she wouldn’t crack when she asked. “Lost, fel’arani?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he replied with an attempt at annoyance. In the time he’d been standing there, the scent from the cakes had wafted over him and already his mouth was watering. He hadn’t eaten more than a handful of candied fruits, and if he wasn’t careful she’d hear his stomach growling. “Where were you?”

Soran chose to leave out his daily visits asking about her whereabouts, instead slumping into his chair, now polished with regular use. She continued on, determined it seemed to remain tight lipped.

“Research,” she murmured, the same response her mentor had given, though he could feel her gently probing the fade around him. So she was more concerned than she let on. “Tracking down old texts mostly. Very boring.”

She was lying. He knew it, and she knew it. Only, Soran also knew that she could be so stubborn when she put her mind to it, trying to force the answer from her would never work. It required a more measured approach. Intending to try a more roundabout tactic, piece together what he could from miniscule details and her reactions to questions, he caught another whiff of the cakes and came to a halt.

“Are you trying to distract me with frilly cakes?”

She pursed her lips and her cheeks dimpled again. “Is it working?”

“Absolutely not.”

He plucked one off the desk regardless, turning it over in the light. The decorated edges were lopsided, heavier in some places and hanging off the entirely in others. Inelegant, but he made out the shape of a flower, a lily perhaps.

“Where did you get these?” They were certainly not the perfectly identical ones he’d surreptitiously pilfer from the Crafthall. Taking a bite, they tasted of cinnamon and spice and orange jelly that ran hot and gooey from the centre. He closed his eyes and hung his head back against the chair, struck by the sudden image of hot summers by a lake, reflecting the afternoon sun and surrounded by the song of a thousand cicadas. Soran swallowed and the impression faded, though it hung seared into his mind as clearly as if he’d been there.

Nydha was watching him, both her eyes and her mind hovered waiting for a reaction. “Do you like it?”

“You made these?” He licked some of the escaping frosting off his knuckle, and was again left feeling summer heat on his skin. The uneven decorations suddenly took on a new light - they were purely for his benefit.

“I felt like baking,” she replied, as he went back for a second bite. “The memory is from when my parents travelled more when I was younger. I spend so much time only experiencing the world through everyone else’s eyes. Sometimes it’s nice to remember what it was like to see.”

“Thank you,” he murmured after a long pause, and the last of the orange jelly had dissolved on his tongue. “For sharing them with me. You’ll have to teach me someday.”

She seemed satisfied with his answer, offering another one of those precious smiles, before returning to her work. He turned over the simple wrapper in his hand, pensive, before retrieving his book to read.

“Do you really want to know?” she asked, after nearly an hour had passed in companionable silence. “Where I’ve been?”

He looked up curiously, trying to discern what had changed her mind. He certainly wasn’t going to say no. She remained a mystery, turning in his direction with a tilt of her head.

“Meet me after midnight on the boulevarde,” she murmured. “And I will show you.”

It was certainly an odd request, but his curiosity refused to be denied, and so Soran found himself skulking around the shadowy archways again. This was far from the first time he’d been there at this hour, but usually it was for more… illicit dealings. He assumed anyway. The possibilities that a blind merchant girl from the university might have gotten herself into were mysterious and intriguing to say the least.

Like the days previous, he was beginning to wonder whether she’d show up when all too suddenly she appeared out of the darkness, donned in different clothes than she wore to the university or the market. They were darker, tighter, hugging her hips, her waist, and a heavy hood cast most of her face in shadow. For someone who couldn’t see anything, she was almost silent, enough to startle him as she emerged, haloed in the ghostly flickering light of distant spiritfire.

“Are you sure you’re up for this, fel’arani?” she asked quietly, a sly grin creeping across her face beneath her cowl.

“Are you going to tell me what _this_ is?” he asked more for effect than information. He’d long since learned better than to expect an answer.

“Don’t you trust me, Soran?”

That probably should have made him nervous. What had she gotten herself involved in? Whatever it was, he was more than eager to find out, and he wore a grin to match her own, tugging the hood up to hide his face.

“Lead the way.”

She set off unerringly, more so than in the day without patrons or gods to get in her way, and Soran trailed in her wake, sticking close. She certainly wasn’t moving around like someone who was doing something lawful, keeping to the shadows, placing her feet so they made almost no noise; a shadow in the night. They wove deeper into the claustrophobic depths of the market district and then at some point the buildings began to change, more run down, more crowded. The Alasan - the dirt districts.

A clatter of movement sounded to their left and she froze, backing up quickly and forcing them both back behind a building as a few shadows passed.

Her back was pressed against his chest as they held their breath, watching as a few pairs of leather boots passed beneath the slightly raised building. Her heart was actually beating fast - belying her outer demeanor.

“Da’len,” he hissed in her ear, leaning down slightly to compensate for his height, “Why are we hiding?”

“We mustn’t be seen,” she replied, holding them both there for a moment longer before continuing on, darting through the brief patch of light.

“Why not just cast an illusion?” he whispered again when they paused between the next set of dilapidated housing. She shook her head in response, and he could feel her casting around in the fade, checking if the coast was clear very thoroughly.

“That sort of magic doesn’t work as well down here,” she answered cryptically, sending a jolt of fear to his gut. The physical illusion for his hair may matter little for her, but if they ran into anyone else it would quickly become a problem. “There are traps.”

“Traps?” Soran hissed incredulously. He didn’t remember detecting any such magical remnants when he was down here last, but then neither had he been trying to disguise himself either. He pulled the spell closer around him. It was not countering any such traps that concerned him as much as tripping them in the first place.

Nydha didn’t elaborate however, instead grabbing his hand and tugging him forward. “Come on. We’re getting closer.”

They wove deeper still into the dirt district, and everything around them gradually became stiller, more quiet, until there was nothing to be heard but their own footsteps. No light hung in the windows, no breath of wind stirred and no night creatures dared breathe. The air felt heavy there, and he began to feel tremblings in the fade. Some kind of magic was at work down here, insidious, ghostly, deadly.

In the alley ahead of them, two figures suddenly appeared blocking their path, Soran immediately stiffened, drawing on magic but her hand tightened around his.

“Don’t.”

Loosing their fingers, they approached the two shadows ahead. It was easy for Soran to make them out as they got closer - tall, rangy elves garbed mostly in dark leathers and cotton, makeshift armor but far from anything glamorous.

Both had their hair cut short and blunt, buzzed off completely on one side. Neither looked pleased to see them.

“Hold,” said the taller one on the left with an ugly scar running through his brow and cheek. They both drew daggers and Soran tensed, tendrils of the fade sparking on his fingertips.

“Var'telany'th,” murmured Nydha, drawing back her hood. “We come free.”

The two elves seemed to relax, only slightly.

“You may pass, Ingal'ras,” said the scarred elf, and Soran narrowed his eyes at the term, “Why do you bring him?”

The other elf actually spat at his feet.

“He means to help us,” she replied cooly. All three of them turned to look at him, and Soran cast uneasy glances between them before nodding. The two guards seemed unconvinced.

“You can’t trust a harelvhen,” snarled the second one. Their vitriolic response left him in no doubt there had been particularly bad blood between them and the noble classes, more even than was the norm for the dirt elves.

“We can trust him,” said Nydha to the pair of guards, and then looked back at him with an expectant smile. “Can’t we?”

The two guards glared at him, but slowly he nodded again.

A wide smile spread across her face as though she’d won something and he almost relaxed until there was a sudden movement from the scarred one, who flipped his dagger in his hand. Soran flinched, but the guard only grinned for a second and held out the hilt, face returning to its mask of steely malevolence.

“Cut it off,” he said, and the other one chuckled while he poked one of the braids escaping his hood. “We need to know we can trust you.”

Soran cast a sharp glance at Nydha, who was still looking in his direction and he felt her hovering close, observing.

“You wanted to know where I was going, didn’t you?”

He had indeed. Turning back to the guard, he closed his hand around the hilt and took the dagger. Neither guard seemed particularly perturbed that he was now visibly armed.

“Why not all of it?” he asked, slowly beginning to piece this all together. This was an initiation for something.

“You’re more use to us up there,” replied the second guard gruffly, clearly indicating that he should get on with it. No chance to speak with Nydha then, it was a leap of faith if he wanted to take it. Raising the edged blade to the braid running from his temple, he was struck with another problem.

Cutting it would produce a far longer piece than they would be expecting. It would mean trouble. It would mean he would get caught. Slowly, he edged his hand along the braid while he appeared to consider the act, half concealing it with his hood. He slipped down another couple of inches before he made the cut and quickly covered the hanging section with the fade, hoping that doing so wouldn’t trigger any of the traps Nydha had mentioned.

Soran held out the limp piece of hair, knowing that someone would inevitably notice the chunk missing from his hair but hopefully nothing much would come of it. It wasn’t like he was the son of a noble who could be chastised by his father after all. The guard took both the braid and the dagger back, seemingly pleased to get his weapon back from a harelvhen. They nodded once again to Nydha, and then melted back into the shadow of the buildings.

Silence enveloped them once more.

“What now?” he asked, finding no rhyme or reason nor secret entrance that he could see.

She smiled in the darkness, pulling back her hood and letting her mass of curls flow free. “Come on.”

More alleyways, but the air felt different and as they wove through, the sound of voices gradually got louder. All at once, the alleys opened into a crowded amphitheatre, held together much like the rest of the area with ramshackle fastenings that didn’t look stable. That did nothing to deter the multitude of elves milling about on raised levels, hanging from support poles or perching atop them. It didn’t look like an off licence bar, though they passed more than a few elves with glasses smelling distinctly of alcohol, nor did it look like what he might have expected for a guarded recess. No gambling, no street fighting. Accusatory eyes followed him as they past, Nydha’s hand once again curled around his own for as much her benefit as his.

As more elves began to notice them, more offered soft greetings to her as they wove through the throngs, while they cursed him in the same breath. It was wildly apparent that she was the only reason they were tolerating him there.

“What is this place?” he asked as they clambered up some of the seating levels, giving him a better view of the place.

“Tar'illen,” she replied with a quiet smirk. “The resistance against the sky people.”

“ _This_ is what you’ve been doing?” he asked, incredulous. Dissidents were not uncommon or unknown, though the pantheon may turn once or twice in their beds knowing there was this kind of conglomeration, and apparently, organisation.

“You sound surprised.”

He considered that for a moment as she perched herself on the top of one of the benches. Perhaps he shouldn’t be: she seemed determined to turn his expectations on their head at every turn. “I just never expected someone like you…”

“Like me?”

“A student of the university,” he continued before she could get the wrong idea. “To be involved in all this?”

“And just what would you know about ‘all this’?” she demanded. He could both hear and see the smile in her voice, she wasn’t angry with him, but she clearly had some point to prove.

Soran shrugged. “It doesn’t exactly go unnoticed by the noble families, let’s put it that way.”

“And you believe everything they’ve told you?”

He considered his answer carefully. Like before, it was a loaded question, and she was good at asking them. “I’ve never had any reason not to.”

She smirked. “And here I thought you were a rebel?”

“You would know, da’inan.”

A third voice hung over them as another elf slid into the seat beside her, tweaking an ear as he did so. Nydha swatted his hand playfully, but Soran froze. The other elf met his eyes, and he knew the game was up.

“Soran, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine.”

The elf slung a lazy arm around her shoulders, holding Soran’s gaze the whole time in silent challenge. Nydha seemed wholly oblivious.

“This is Alingarel.”

Vivid blue lines traced the contours of his face, forming the point of an arrow on his forehead, and he had no hair at all, his head shaved bare. He was a slave, from the temples.

 


	3. A War of Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disguise and lies are the name of the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven translations for this chapter:  
>  _Note - some are italicised in text for easier readability, things like pet names are included here._
> 
> da'inan - _little eyes, diminutive_  
>  da'ingalas - _little sharp one, diminutive_  
>  laimsa - _slave; derogatory term, highly condescending and offensive_  
>  da'fen - _little wolf_  
>  fel'arani - _my slow friend, informal_  
>  Var’telany’th - _"Our voice will not be silenced.", rebel elf pass phrase_  
>  harelvhen - _traitor to the people; the nobility and the gods_

Soran held his breath, though there wasn’t much point anymore. It was over, and somehow, he doubted that a member of the pantheon being discovered down here would receive a warm welcome. He also had a sneaking suspicion they would be the least of his worries once Nydha found out he’d been lying to her. The slave -Alingarel, he reminded himself- said nothing, instead breaking eye contact to cluck Nydha under the chin. Soran frowned, and Nydha giggled.

“Soran, is it?” smirked Alingarel, apparently taking great pleasure in watching the god struggle to maintain his composure, a cat toying with its prey. Soran hated cats. “A pleasure to finally meet you face to face. I’ve heard so much about you.”

A muscle in Soran’s jaw twitched. “Is that so?”

“Nydha’s told me all about you,” Alingarel continued with a lazy grin, gesticulating extravagantly while casting pointed glances in Soran’s direction that Nydha was unlikely to notice. “It’s a little different in person. Where do you find these people, da’inan?”

“It’s easier to find the right people when your eyes aren’t distracting you, da’ingalas,” she replied, giving him a friendly push that might have toppled him from the seat but he was expecting it, merely rocking in place. In return, he mussed her hair until she protested with a muffled laugh and shoved him off.

“How does one of Andruil’s chosen wind up friends with a merchant girl from the university?” Soran asked, cutting them off. In another situation it might have pleased him that she’d spoken of him at all. Instead, he felt exposed, this slave knew everything about him and he knew nothing. Any power he’d held was gone.

He cast a critical eye over the distinct lines forming a bow that trailed Alingarel’s cheeks, escaping under the collar of the plain serving robes. Who knew how far they went: Andruil especially was known for binding her flock with an iron will, but without the mercy of anaesthesia. How he was here at all was another mystery altogether, though it seemed likely Nydha and her unusual talents were involved. Dangerous, very dangerous, to so blatantly defy the goddess’s will, but that was a topic for another time.

His assessment and disapproval seemed to amuse the slave, who threw back his head and laughed while Nydha returned her attention to him.

“I have a talent for running into the right people,” she replied obtusely, as per usual.

“I question your taste, da’inan,” added the bald elf, once again returning his arm to rest across her shoulders. The corner of Soran’s mouth twitched in annoyance. “You ran into me after all.”

“I run into all sorts of interesting people,” she smiled, her gaze falling on Soran pointedly again. Not for the first time he had to remind himself those eyes did not see, could not see him swallow hard. “Lucky for you.”

That last part had been directed at Alingarel, who grinned. “Where would I be without you, da’inan?”

“Where indeed?” she replied, but her voice trailed off as her ears swivelled forward abruptly.

Nydha’s head turned towards the raised voices first, and Alingarel turned with her, searching the crowd for what, Soran couldn’t begin to guess. The atmosphere had changed rapidly, though it was hard to make out the cause - people were milling about in a writhing mass just as they had been before, if perhaps in tighter, faster patterns. He glanced at Nydha again, sitting alert with rapidly twitching ears - her presence plainly felt moving in the fade making him wonder how she didn’t trigger any traps. Perhaps that was what had caused the alarm.

“Wait here,” she murmured, already being drawn away by a striking merchant woman and a weedy farmer who must have been more value than he looked.

“Nydha-” Her fingers slipped between his and all he caught was a reassuring parting glance. The crowd closed around her, and he was alone. Momentarily concerned that he might be lynched in her absence, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder accompanied by a low chuckle. The fact that Soran flinched at the contact only made him glower more as he rounded on Alingarel.

The rangy slave offered him a tense smile. “Strange finding someone like you all the way down here.”

“Is it so hard to imagine?” he replied through his teeth. Alingarel continued to insist on using vague language and it set him on edge. He seemed to know it too, his grin widening.

“Perhaps not. It’s a dangerous place for lone wolves to be separated from their pack”

Soran shrugged and extricated Alingarel’s hand with obvious distaste before drawing himself up. He still didn’t come up past the slave’s chin. Even so, he did his best to look down his nose at him while they sized each other up. “So what are you going to do about it, _laimsa_?” 

Inga’s smirk disappeared, replaced by a hard expression as he stared down the bridge of his nose. “Think carefully before you leap, da’fen. If you hurt her, there is no god in this world or the next that can protect you.”

Soran sniffed. “Perhaps it is not I that will need protecting.”

“We will see.”

The voices around them grew louder and the agitation of the crowd shifted. Both Soran and Alingarel turned their heads, ears twisting to pick up the specifics, while Soran tested the fade to try and locate Nydha amongst the throngs. It was difficult enough on a normal day, and he was still aware of the traps that hung heavy in the air. As quickly as she’d gone she materialised again from behind a shambling pillar with the same woman as before in her wake.

“What is happening, lethallan?” he asked, ignoring the scoff from Alingarel’s direction. Nydha did too, which quietly pleased him until her expression remained hard.

“I have to go,” she said simply, and beside him, Alingarel’s posture had straightened, needlessly adding even more height. The sardonic smirk had vanished too, replaced instead with focus and a frown.

“What?” More elves seemed to be crushing into the amphitheatre around them, while others were making a hasty exit. “Now?”

Nydha merely nodded as though this was normal, though the line of her mouth suggested something else. “This is Nehnasa, she can escort you out.”

He almost asked if that was entirely necessary, but the growing number of angry shouts made him think better of it.

“I could take you if you’d prefer, da’len,” offered Alingarel, “You never know what dangerous people might be lurking out there.”

“Stop it,” Nydha murmured, barely audible over the crowd but the effect was immediate. Much to Soran’s amazement, he did. Alingarel turned his full attention to her again, standing straighter and moving to her side. “I need you with me.”

“Perhaps I can help?” Soran offered, taking a subconscious step closer. There was little choice with the press of the crowd.

“Not tonight,” Nydha replied, giving his hand a comforting squeeze.

“Nydha-”

“Come and find me tomorrow, fel’arani.”

For the third time that night, her fingers slipped from his grasp and like before, he was alone.

The journey out of the dirt district was an unpleasant one; there were many more elves moving about now, in between buildings and over rooftops. Soran was left unknowing, and his guide was apparently in no mood to chat, silencing him with a swift look when he tried to ask what was going on. His guess was the best he could do, and some kind of raid seemed most likely: curfews were a threat he’d never had to consider before but they were in place to stop gatherings such as the one he’d just witnessed.

The fade felt ever more oppressive around them as they fled, on dusty backroads and narrow alleys different to the ones that had brought him there. The merchant woman did not hold his hand, and instead kept a pace that had him breathing heavily which earned an annoyed look as well. When they emerged, they were higher up in the city than he’d imagined, back at the square where Nydha had collected him.

The woman watched for a breath before stepping out: checking for guards. She turned to run a critical eye over him one more time, before placing two fingers over her lips.

“Var’telany’th,” she murmured, before disappearing back into the shadows. _Our voice will not be silenced._

If there was a correct way to respond to that, he didn’t know it. Like he didn’t know a great many things, he now realised. Tomorrow he would get answers, he vowed, but no one would witness his resolve. Instead he was left to skulk back to the cloud district and his temple, back to a different world that was becoming increasingly disprit the more he saw.

Rest was fleeting that night, a mixture of fitful dreams and nightmares and worry. Slowly, annoyance crept in and by the time dawn woke the rest of the temple and the city around him began to stir, he had half a mind not to find Nydha, that day or even the next. Where was he even supposed to find her?

His resistance lasted until midday. None of the ripe and rosy fruits or cured meats interested him, but he was hungry. Snapping at his priests, he marched off without so much of a word in explanation for where he was going, other than ‘out’. They didn’t need to know.

Stuffing his unkempt hair into his hood, Soran slipped out the side of the temple and quickly made his way down, past the Crafthall and the smells that wafted there, though he could have easily spirited away some treat. He made no move to investigate the university either, instead dodging the increasingly busy crowds in the direction of the market district. The thoroughfare was busiest at this time of day, loud and hot and stifling in the summer heat. Traders bartered their wares, those selling street food doing a roaring trade as the noble class, merchants and workers alike vied for space in the lines. It was chaotic, and for once, no one noticed him. He wasn’t there to be noticed.

Briefly he cast a glance to the crumbling archways that lead ever upwards, towering over the people who hurried beneath them. There were no blind girls to run into among them. Instead, he wove between the throngs, bumping and shoving and pushing against those who might otherwise have fallen at his feet. It didn’t preoccupy him as much as it might have otherwise, as he followed the sound of hot oil in a pan and the smell of freshly baked bread. He felt like something sweet, maybe orange flavoured.

The orange jelly he was craving it seemed was unavailable, and instead he went for fried dough smothered in fresh honey. When the store owner held out his hand, he realised too late the man was after money. He opened his mouth to argue and reached for his hood, messy hair and conspicuous missing chunk be damned, when deft fingers deposited a trio of silver coins into the merchant’s hand. Nydha smiled sweetly at the man, whose brows unknitted immediately and tried to return the change.

“For your trouble,” she replied, removing her hand while her other arm snaked around Soran’s waist to lead him through the crowd.

“What makes you think I was causing trouble?” he demanded, caught too off guard to remember to be properly annoyed. She didn’t answer, he only caught the ghost of a smile as she glanced back at him. Nydha kept her hand on his belt as they wove in and out of the mass, and a couple of times he had to pull her up to stop her from colliding headlong with people who stepped in front of her too quickly. “How did you even find me?”

“You’re conspicuous,” she replied, giving him another tug as she forged ahead - clearly with a destination in mind. Soran huffed in disagreement, if he’d been conspicuous the merchant would have known him immediately and they’d have no trouble passing through the crowd. His cover would be blown immediately if he was conspicuous.

The crowds dissipated somewhat away from the crush of narrow terraces and market stalls, opening out into worn pathways winding between parks and hilly embankments. A public fountain sprayed water into the air and attracted a crowd both elven and animal alike looking to cool off. Perched on the ornate edge and preening not unlike one of the elaborate lyrebirds beside him, was Alingarel. Soran frowned immediately.

“What is he doing here?” he demanded. Alingarel waved a lazy hand in their direction.

“Watching for you, of course,” she replied. “I’d never find you on a day like this, too many people, too many images, too much noise.”

That explained her clumsiness at least, but it raised another question. “How did either of you know I’d be here?”

“I’m rather excellent at collecting whispers, da’len,” chimed in Alingarel as they approached, apparently catching the last part of the conversation. “We have ears everywhere.”

Soran huffed, but could say nothing. Whispers, was it? He was more concerned where the slave had heard them from -his fellow compatriots?- and whether Nydha knew also. She mustn’t, because Alingarel was still grinning from ear to ear like a cat with the cream. He would draw this game out for as long as it held entertainment, but then what?

“What is he _doing_ here?” Soran elaborated, as Nydha slid herself up beside Alingarel, damp seat be damned. “It’s not just him who will get into trouble if he’s spotted,”

“It’s a good thing there’s no one around who would know me then, isn’t it?”

Soran glared. Nydha laughed, picking a grape off the bunch beside Alingarel. “You worry too much, fel’arani. He’s cloaked.”

While this was literally true -despite the weather Alingarel wore a full hood and rope like Soran did- Soran picked up on her second meaning: his appearance was disguised.

“But I can still see his vallaslin?”

“You know they’re there,” replied Nydha, undaunted by his concern and confusion. A quiet voice in his mind nagged him about just how much knowledge she had of the machinations of the fade - such spells were not easy nor common knowledge. And could she have noticed his?

“No one down here would recognise me, would they?” said Alingarel, continuing to pry as much as possible. “Even temple goers never look at the slaves.”

It was about as blatant as he could be without saying it outright. Only their masters looked upon the temple slaves. Soran couldn’t remember ever seeing him before, but he was no stranger to Andruil’s haunts. He almost wished this farce would end, just to be through with it.

“But, you do make a good point, harelvhen, I should be getting back before I’m missed,” Alingarel said, sitting straighter and bouncing off the fountain’s edge in one fluid movement. “She’s not known to spare those that wander too far from her flock.”

Soran almost verbally agreed. Alingarel hesitated only a moment to see if he’d fall into his trap, before spinning on his heel and call over his shoulder. “I’ll try not to have too much fun without you, da’inan.”

“Inga,” she said, sharper so that he turned back to look at her. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Can’t make any promises on that, da’inan,” he grinned, but one look at her face and his expression softened. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead and mussed her hair so there were curls going everywhere. “ _You_ worry too much.”

“I worry exactly the right amount,” she muttered as the tall elf strode off and quickly became lost in the crowd. Soran watched him go, before propping himself up beside her on the marble ledge, ignoring the spray that clung to his clothing. In lieu of removing it entirely, it was a welcome relief, but he didn’t to draw any attention to himself -and unlike Alingarel there was no guarantee that someone wouldn’t recognise him here.

Nydha reached for another grape, plopping the fruit into her mouth and reminding him of his own snack. The honey and oil had seeped through the thin paper, and he licked his fingers clean as they sat, watching a group of children play in the fountain under the watchful eye of their mothers and fathers in the shade nearby.

“Inga?” he said, finally breaking the silence.

Nydha smiled to herself. “Suits him, no?”

“On that I will agree.”

He took another bite of the bread, and the pause hung pregnant in the air. She bumped her shoulder against his. “You look troubled, da’len.”

“Whatever happened to trust?”

She chuckled, and bumped him again. “What about last night makes you think I don’t trust you?”

“Alphabetically or in chronological order?” he scoffed, lowering the half eaten bread to the seat beside him, forgotten. “Do you trust him?”

“Of course,” she replied without hesitation, making a point of looking directly at him that Soran knew was for his benefit alone. How dare she use such underhand tactics?

“I wouldn’t be so certain.”

“I’ve known Inga for the better part of two centuries,” Nydha said, forcing him to hold her gaze though for what purpose. Her ears were twitching again. “He’s more than earned my trust.”

Soran fell silent and dropped his gaze with a heavy sigh. Silence enveloped them once more. What was he doing here?

“Just how many of the nobility do you think have seen what you did last night?” she asked, and he heard the quiet smile in her voice before he looked down to see it. It was hard to imagine not having that luxury.

“How many of them lived?”

“Only you, fel’arani,” she smiled, indulgently leaning in close enough that he had to almost balance back over the water, closer enough he could smell her perfume. Orange blossoms. “Only you.”

“Comforting,” he retorted, trying to bump her and only succeeding in unbalancing himself. Nydha’s hand caught him by the belt again, leaving them hovering there for a moment before she pulled him back.

“Trust,” she said. “They trust me. I trust you. It’s that simple.”

“It’s never that simple,” Soran said, raising an eyebrow in response. Nydha grinned, making the curled tips of her ears wiggle.

“And you know this?”

Soran drew himself up to his full height and made a show of straightening his robes before peering down his nose at her. “When you have walked this earth for as long as I have, lethallan, perhaps you will understand.”

“Perhaps? I think I understand perfectly.” She leaned in again, for longer this time, daring him to move away or drop his gaze. “You’re a liar, fel’arani,”

“I thought you said you trusted me.”

“I do,” she leaned back, just enough to give him room to breathe again. “I trust you to lie. And I trust you to be good at it. Those are the conditions of our arrangement with the Tar’illen. Without it...”

“Without it?”

“Without it, I’m not sure even I could keep you safe.”

“You think I need protecting, lethallan?” he smiled, the idea was laughable. “Alingarel as well?”

“You both need protecting,” Nydha said simply, like it was another of her universal truths.

“And who protects you?”

Her laugh was bitter as she looked away across the fountain.

“The gods, of course.”

 

 


End file.
